


Veils

by WahlBuilder



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bipolar Disorder, Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, ft. Rook the rook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 05:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15722739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Jacob returns to the Alhambra and finds Max pacing.





	Veils

The square is uncharacteristically quiet when Jacob gets there. He slinks into the side alley. The second window to the left on the second floor is open (which is expected) and lit (which is not expected). Jacob doesn’t bother with doors at all, front or otherwise: there’s always someone nodding by them but he doesn’t want to wake them up. Even the Alhambra is asleep for the most part at four o’clock in the morning. There shouldn’t have been a light in that window.

Jacob scales the wall effortlessly; he doesn’t even need to feel for purchase: it’s a climb as familiar as the climb at their old house in Croydon.

He pulls himself up and through the window and sits on the windowsill for a while.

Just as he thought, as the lit window told him, Max is not asleep.

The room is spacious, with a high ceiling, and separated into two areas by two painted folding screens. One part is a ‘bedroom’ with an old-fashioned be-posted bed on a podium. The other part of the room is a working area.

There is a mess about it, the mess that only adds to Jacob’s understanding of what he’s dealing with. The desk, the low settee are strewn with papers, some of them flittering to the floor even as Jacob watches: posters, print-outs. As far as Jacob can see, the print-outs are schedules, adorned with left-slanting red-brown letters like lacework. Except for the stack that has all but buried the laptop on the desk—the stack is unmistakably the text of a play. There is even more of the handwriting lacework on it. The laptop is singing something, muffled, under all that paper. Jacob listens to it for a while—and smiles.  _London Calling_ , on repeat.

Max is pacing. His pacing causes more sheets to flow onto the floor. It’s not rhythmical either: he stops here and there, picks a paper, writes something, mouthing to himself, discards the sheet, starts moving again. He is in his shirtsleeves, suspenders lowered, left hand bare and the right gloved. Jacob can make out a few fingers of the left glove under the stack on the desk. Max is barefoot. The perfect line of his trousers is somewhat ruined by a ball of paper he’s stuffed into the right pocket.

Rook, perched on one of the folding screens, is watching Max’s uneven pacing with one disapproving eye.

Freezes abruptly and rushes to the laptop—and stops with a hand stretched to the desk. Another sheet slides onto the floor. His green eyes are shining in the light of the Tiffany lamp placed on the chair. ‘My dear’.

The fact that Max has noticed him only now and not minutes before is yet another sign of what shade of not-all-right they are dealing with.

Jacob smiles.

Max reaches out a hand to him, and he takes it and hops onto the floor, trying to avoid the papers. ‘Can’t sleep?’

Max lets out a frustrated groan, rubs his brow. His hand is holding Jacob’s in a loose ring of fingers. ‘Still can’t find the right people for _Salomé_ , my dear. This is vexatious. I’m starting to think I should abandon the idea of staging it.’

 _‘Je baiserai ta bouche, Iokanaan,’_ Jacob says, trying his best, although he’s sure Evie would have criticised his pronunciation if she had been here. But she’s not here, and it gets Max’s attention. He arches an eyebrow.

Jacob flushes and looks down at their locked hands. Between the two of them, they have more scars and broken bones acquired in the last year than most people average in a lifetime.

‘You would make a fine Salomé, my dear boy,’ Max says, and Jacob’s cheeks are positively burning now. Max’s voice sounds like a purr.

‘I’m not that good at dancing,’ Jacob admits under his nose.

Max lets out a chuckle. ‘Believe me, my boy, when you drop the first veil, there will be a riot.’ He sounds unbelievably fond.

Jacob looks away, afraid the scattered papers might catch on fire from him—but a hand on his cheek tilts his face up to Max. Max’s expression is very tender. ‘You are beautiful. Never doubt it.’ Then, his expression shifts: the smile disappears, weariness gathers in his eyes. They look dull, their emerald brilliance faded. ‘I’d make a decent Herod myself, perhaps. Too old to be the Young Syrian.’

‘I was thinking about Jokanaan for you,’ Jacob admits.

Days such as this are among the worst, Max being thrown between extremes of mood.

Max arches his brows again, then laughs. ‘I’m afraid I was never the one to hold back from temptation.’

‘You are temptation yourself.’ Jacob squeezes his hand. He’s not as good at this as Max—flirting, charm. But he can learn, and Max is an excellent teacher.

And it makes Max smile, which makes it worth the effort.

Rook caws and in two lazy flaps of wings settles in Max’s hair. Max sighs again. ‘I am so sorry, my winged friend. You should go to sleep upstairs.’

‘I don’t think he will,’ Jacob notes. Rook is settling down. He’s good at noticing patterns of Max’s mood, but sometimes he gets too anxious himself and doesn’t know where to go in case of trouble.

‘Max, have you taken your meds?’ Jacob asks quietly, rubbing Max’s often-busted knuckles.

Max sighs yet again, then picks Rook out of his hair with his free hand. Rook clacks his beak and fluffs up. ‘Yes. It is simply that… I’m worried.’

Jacob pushes himself away from the window. ‘We could lie down. I don’t think I can fall asleep now either.’ Letting go of Max’s hand, he loosens the cords on his hoodie as he steps between the scattered papers. He can pick them up later.

Max’s gaze is heavy on his back. ‘Are you trying to entice me into sleep?’

Jacob snorts, pulls the hoodie off over his head, and turns to Max. ‘You said my dropping of the first veil would be pretty enticing.’ He still has plenty of things on his person, but the hoodie, he does drop with a smirk. _‘Je baiserai ta bouche, Iokanaan.’_


End file.
